


The Literature Of The Heart

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-05-20 15:46:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14897402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: “Do you know this piece?”That makes John laugh. “Heavens no! I’m ashamed to say I never possessed the patience required to learn.” He watches Laszlo’s fingers nimbly weave a few more bars, his own resting silently in place, before he asks, “Will you teach me?”





	The Literature Of The Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this little thing in my head for ages. A rewatch finally prompted me to actually write it.

It’s Cyrus who appears at the door in response to John’s ring, and once the frigid winter air is shut securely outside once again he takes John’s coat to hang it in the hall where it may drip harmlessly as the snow clinging to the wool melts.

Cyrus informs John that there is a fire lit should he wish to warm himself, but there is no need for the man to direct him as to where he might find Laszlo. The sound of the piano rings sonorously throughout the house, notes bouncing and echoing off the walls, and John is smiling even before he reaches the doorway and sees his friend straight-backed upon the bench, absorbed in the music.

He must sense John’s presence, however, for the notes trail off into silence, much to John’s disappointment.

“John.” Laszlo knows it’s him even before he turns to greet his unexpected visitor.

“No, please,” John insists, waving Laszlo back down before he has even begun to courteously rise from his seat. “Don’t stop.”

Laszlo’s eyebrows twitch up in surprise, a silent question, but he turns back to the piano and picks up right where he left off.

John doesn’t recognize the music, but that hardly seems to matter; the weaving notes draw him across the room until he’s stood behind Laszlo, sharing in the pleasure of the song. Laszlo so often tends to pick solemn pieces - perhaps because they are more easily played with only the left hand - but today the tune is something upbeat, and John soon forgets about the chill in his bones.

Cocooned in the moment, John places a hand on Laszlo’s shoulder, lightly enough not to interrupt his playing. Laszlo gives a curious little jerk of his head at the contact, but his fingers don’t falter, continuing to flit expertly over the keys. John watches, entranced, for several minutes until he notices Laszlo’s right hand, restless where it lies in his lap, the fingers twitching against his thigh as if itching to join in.

The sight leaves John suddenly sad. Laszlo has never let his lame arm pose an impediment, never used it as a reason for failure or an excuse, never sought to be treated any differently to his peers or afforded any advantage. John can only imagine, however, the private frustration such a limitation must cause, not only with the simple tasks others take for granted, but perhaps even more so when it prevents him fully enjoying a passion such as this.

On a whim, John sits down beside Laszlo, perching on the edge of the bench at his right, and he knows he is under curious scrutiny as he brushes his fingertips lightly over the tops of the piano keys.

“Do you know this piece?”

That makes John laugh. “Heavens no! I’m ashamed to say I never possessed the patience required to learn.” He watches Laszlo’s fingers nimbly weave a few more bars, his own resting silently in place, before he asks, “Will you teach me?”

The glance Laszlo shoots him is alight with both astonishment and amusement. “You wish to learn?”

“I want…” John hesitates, suddenly unsure of himself, afraid Laszlo will misinterpret his clumsy offer and read offense where none is meant. But, in the end, he has always been unable to lie to Laszlo. “I want to be your right hand.”

The music stops abruptly.

John doesn’t dare look at Laszlo, cursing himself for foolishly spoiling the moment, for stepping so blithely across a boundary he has always respected. He can feel the intensity of Laszlo’s sharp gaze, however, and like a moth drawn to a flame he meets those dark eyes, so close due to their shared seat and yet so distant, lost deep in thought.

He’s still desperately trying to formulate some kind of apology when Laszlo turns back to the piano, and he must have recognized the sincerity in John’s eyes for, although his expression doesn’t so much as flicker, he flips the pages of music back to the start of the score and shuffles across a little on the bench, granting John more space.

“We shall start at the beginning.”

Immensely relieved, John settles himself more comfortably, looks at the page before him and realizes he has absolutely no idea how to translate all those various squiggles onto the row of white and black keys.

“It will have to be the _very_ beginning, I’m afraid,” he admits, but his embarrassment ebbs at the sound of the soft chuckle beside him.

“I do relish a challenge.”

John’s indignant retort never quite manifests, for Laszlo motions for his hand and then he’s arranging John’s fingers into their correct places. It’s strangely intimate, and John misses the contact when he’s released.

“This is where you start.”

And Laszlo teaches him, walks him through the progression of notes, counts out loud so John can keep time, patiently corrects his mistakes, and after a good portion of the afternoon has passed them by they are playing in harmony - _mostly_ \- sat shoulder-to-shoulder and filling the house once again with music.

Until John strikes the wrong key and winces at his mistake, the notes fading away into regrettable silence.

“I’m sorry.” Cross at his own clumsy error, he scowls at his traitorous hand. “I fear Sara was right.”

Laszlo cocks his head in confusion. “Miss Howard?”

“Yes.” John sighs, recalling Sara’s gently mocking appraisal. “She once informed me I lack dexterity in my fingers. All men do, apparently. Perhaps she has a point.”

“Nonsense. You have fine fingers.” Laszlo’s response is so matter-of-fact that it takes a moment for the unexpected praise to register. “An artist’s hands.”

John blinks and stares at Laszlo’s inscrutable profile. “You think so?”

“No one can master anything in a day.” A typical Kreizler evasion, focused only on the practical. “You merely require more practise.”

“So we can do this again?” John doesn’t try to disguise the hope in his voice.

Laszlo finally looks at him, his expression as open as John has ever seen it. “I would like that, yes.”

John’s grin is wide and happy, delighted at the admission. “Perhaps then I can show you what these fingers are truly capable of!” He wiggles them for greater effect and it might only be his imagination but he’s certain there’s a faint blush rising on Laszlo’s cheeks.

“Quite.” Laszlo clears his throat, composes himself. “But now, I think we have earned ourselves dinner. You will join me?”

John agrees, quick and eager, but it’s not the promise of food that has him so elated as he extends his hand to Laszlo.

It’s the light dancing in Laszlo’s eyes as his fingers curl around John’s.

**Author's Note:**

> "Music is the literature of the heart; it commences where speech ends." -Alphonse de Lamartine


End file.
